on its back wasn’t going to have ordinary bones,
was it? –
The notes in front of him were a little more believable, talking about some unknown catastrophe that had killed millions of the mammoths, bison, and giant shrews and then covered them over, pretty much like the Fifth Elephant in the story. There were notes about old troll sagas and legends of the dwarfs. Possibly ice had been involved. Or a flood. In the case of the trolls, who were believed to be the first species in the world, maybe they’d been there and seen the elephant trumpeting across the sky.
The result, anyway, was the same. Everyone well, everyone except Vimes – knew the best fat came from the Schmaltzberg wells and mines. It made the whitest, brightest candles, the creamiest soap, the hottest, cleanest lamp oil. The yellow tallow from AnkhMorpork’s boilers didn’t come close.
Vimes didn’t see the point. Gold … now that was important. People died for it. And iron AnkhMorpork needed iron. Timber, too. Stone, even. Silver, now, was very …
He flicked back to a page headed ‘Natural Resources’, and under ‘Silver’ read: ‘Silver has not been mined in Uberwald since the Diet of Bugs in Am 1880, and the possession of the metal is technically illegal.’
There was no explanation. He made a note to ask Inigo. After all, where you got werewolves, didn’t you need silver? And things must have been pretty bad if everyone had to eat insects.
Anyway, silver was useful, too, but fat was just … fat. It was like biscuits, or tea, or sugar. It was just something that turned up in the cupboard. There was no style to it, no romance. It was stuff in tubs.
A note was clipped to the next page. He read:
‘The Fifth Elephant as a metaphor also appears in the Uberwald languages. Depending on context it can mean “a thing that does not exist” (as we would say, “Klatchian mist”), “a thing that is other than it seems” and “a thing that, while
unseen, controls events” (in the same way that we would use the term eminence grise).’
I wouldn’t, thought Vimes. I don’t use words like that.
‘Constable Shoe,’ said Constable Shoe, when the door of the bootmaker’s factory was opened. ‘Homicide.’
‘You come ‘bout Mister Sonky?’ said the troll who’d opened the door. Warm damp air blew out into the street, smelling of incontinent cats and sulphur.
‘I meant I’m a zombie,’ said Reg Shoe. ‘I find that telling people right away saves embarrassing misunderstandings later on. But coincidentally, yes, we’ve come about the alleged deceased.’
‘We?’ said the troll, making no comment about Reg’s grey skin and stitch marks.
‘Doon here, bigjobs!’
The troll looked down, not a usual direction in AnkhMorpork, where people preferred not to see what they were standing in.
‘Oh,’ he said, and took a few steps backwards.
Some people said that gnomes were no more belligerent than any other race, and this was true. However, the belligerence was compressed down into a body six inches high and, like many things when they are compressed, had an inclination to explode. Constable Swires had been on the force only for a few months, but news had gone around and already he inspired respect, or at least the bladder-trembling terror that can pass for respect on these occasions.
‘Don’t just stand there gawpin’, where’s yon stiff?’ said Swires, striding into the factory.
‘We put him in der cellar,’ said the troll. ‘And now we got half a ton of liquid rubber runnin’ to waste. He’d be livid ‘bout that … if he was alive, o’course.’
‘Why’s it wasted?’ said Reg.
‘Gone all thick and manky, hasn’t it? I’m gonna have to dump it later on, and days not easy. We was supposed to be dippin’ a load of Ribbed Magical Delights today, too, but all der ladies felt faint when I hauls him outa der vat and dey went off home.’
Reg Shoe looked shocked. He was not, for various reasons, a patron of Mr Sonky’s wares, romance not being a regular feature of the life of the dead, but surely the world of the living had some standards, didn’t it?
‘You employ ladies here?’ he said.
The troll looked surprised. ‘Yeah. Sure. It’s good steady work. Dey’re good workers, too. Always laughing and tellin’ jokes while dey’re doin’ der dippin’ and packin’, ‘specially when we’re doin’ der Big Boys.’ The troll sniffed. ‘Pers’nally, I don’t unnerstan’ der jokes.’
‘Them Big Boys are bloody good value for a penny,’ said Buggy Swires.
Reg Shoe stared at his tiny partner. There was just no way that he was going to ask the question. But Swires must have seen his expression.
‘After a bit of work wi’ yon scissors, ye won’t find a better mackintosh in the whole city,’ said the gnome, and laughed nastily.
Constable Shoe sighed. He knew that Mr Vimes
had an unofficial policy of getting ethnic minorities into the Watch,* but he wasn’t sure this was wise in the case of gnomes, even though there was, admittedly, no ethnic group that was more minor. They had an inbuilt resistance to rules. This didn’t just apply to the law, but to all the invisible rules that most people obeyed unthinkingly, like ‘Do not attempt to eat this giraffe’ or ‘Do not headbutt people in the ankle just because they won’t give you a chip’. It was best to think of Constable Swires simply as a small independent weapon.
‘You’d better show us the d-the person who is currently vitally challenged,’ he said. They were led downstairs. What was hanging from a beam there would have frightened the life out of anyone who wasn’t already a zombie.
‘Sorry ‘bout dat,’ said the troll, pulling it down and tossing it into a corner, where it coiled into a rubbery heap.
‘What d’heel wazzit?’ said Constable Swires.
‘We had to pull der rubber off’f him,’ said the troll. ‘Sets quick, see? Once you get it out in der air.’
‘Hey, that’s a’ biggest Sonky I ever saw,’ chuckled Buggy. ‘A whole-body Sonky! Reckon that’s the way he wanted to go?’
Reg looked at the corpse. He didn’t mind being sent out on murders, even messy ones. The way he saw it, dying was really just a career change. Been there, done that, worn the shroud … And
*As a member of the dead community Reg Shoe naturally thought of himself as an ethnic majority.
then you got over it and got on with your life. Of course, he knew that many people didn’t, for some reason, but he thought of them as not prepared to make the effort.
There was a ragged wound in the neck.
‘Any next of kin?’ he said.
‘He got a brother in Uberwald. We’ve sent word,’ the troll added. ‘On der clacks. It cost twenty dollars! Dat’s murder!’
‘Can you think of any reason why someone would kill him?’
The troll scratched his head. ‘Well, ‘cos dey wanted him dead, I reckon. Dat’s a good reason.’
‘And why would anyone want him dead, do you think?’ Reg Shoe could be very, very patient. ‘Has there been any trouble?’
‘Business ain’t been so good, I know dat.’
‘Really? I’d have thought you’d be coining money here.’
‘Oh, yeah, days what you’d fink, but not everyfing people calls a Sonky is made by us, see? It’s to do wid us becomin” – the troll’s face screwed up with cerebral effort – ‘jer-nair-rick. Lots of other buggers are jumpin’ up and down on der bandwagon, and dey got better plant and new ideas like makin’ ‘em in cheese-and-onion flavour an’ wid bells on an’ stuff like dat. Mister Sonky won’t have nothin’ to do wid dat kind of frog and days been costin’ us sales.’
‘I can see this would worry him,’ said Reg, in a keep-on-talking tone of voice.
‘He’s been locking himself in his office a lot.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’ said Reg.
‘He’s der boss. You don’t ask der boss. But he
did say dat dere was a special job comin’ up and data put us back on our feets.’
‘Really?’ said Reg, making a mental note. ‘What kind of job?’
‘Dunno. You don’t-‘
‘-ask the boss,’ said Reg. ‘Right. I suppose no one saw the murder, did they?’
Once again the troll screwed up its enormous face in thought.
‘Der murderer, yeah, an’ prob’ly Mister Sonky.’
‘Was there a third party?’
‘I dunno, I never get invited to dem frogs.’
‘Apart from Mister Sonky and the murderer,’ said Shoe, still as patient as the grave, ‘was there anyone else here last night?’
‘Dunno,’ said the troll.
‘Thank you, you’ve been very helpful,’ said Shoe. ‘We’ll have a look around, if you don’t mind.’
‘Sure.’
The troll went back to his vat.
Reg Shoe hadn’t expected to find anything and was not disappointed. But he was thorough. Zombies usually are. Mr Vimes had told him never to get too excited about clues, because clues could lead you a dismal dance. They could become a habit. You ended up finding a wooden leg, a silk slipper and a feather at the scene of a crime and constructing an elegant theory involving a one-legged ballet dancer and a production of Chicken Lake.